The Glass You Break to Touch
by poisons
Summary: A series of loosely connected CoxJD vignettes written for the 2dozenowies challenge on LJ. Character abuse abounds.
1. drowning

When he falls in, it takes a moment for him to realize. Some part of him knew, some part expected this, and took a deep breath before he broke the surface of the water. He hit a rock on the way in, smashed his head right against it but he knows better than to cry out in pain, not when he's going deeper and deeper into the freezing cold bay.

And it's been such a perfect day. All the colors are super-saturated, so bright it hurts his eyes a little. He can still see it above him, a few friendly clouds floating across the sky. The water around him is clearer than he expected it would be, but though it's stinging his eyes he doesn't dare close them. He can feel his clothes billowing around him, brushing against the bare skin underneath.

It's getting colder and darker around him before it occurs to him to struggle, but his arms and legs don't quite seem to know what's going on, either. He can't move, and he realizes it's getting colder and darker because he's passing out. Underwater.

The worst part of that, other than the fact that he's probably going to die, is that he knows how this is going to work. He knows that the carbon dioxide levels in his bloodstream will get too high and eventually he will have to breathe in, but there will be nothing but water. He'll choke and cough and breathe in more water, until his larynx seals itself shut so no water will get into his lungs. And then he'll become hypoxic. And then he'll pass out. His airways will open again, letting water into his lungs. Then, cardiac arrest will follow pulmonary arrest. Then he'll die.

He doesn't know if anyone saw him fall in and his lungs are burning but he doesn't want to let go of any of the air he's holding because he doesn't know when he'll get more. He imagines Dr. Cox coming down to save him, a choir of angels and holy lights singing and shining around him, hauling him to the surface and snapping at him, "Christ, Ginger, you've gone and ruined your pretty dress." Anything. He'd suffer through anything right now if it meant he didn't have to be _here_ anymore.

He tries again to make his limbs move, to push himself to the surface which is rapidly receding, but he can't do anything, and of course he can't stop his lungs from pushing the old air out and trying to bring fresh oxygen in. The water stings his nose and his throat and his chest and his eyes close and the last thing he sees is that blue sky above him, wavering and shaking. 

_What a freak accident_, Perry thinks, watching the bicyclist push himself up off of the ground. Brake failure, probably. Unfortunate for Newbie, since the bay water is still cold even in late springtime. He'll come up, coughing and spluttering and whining, dripping wet all over everyone and everything, demanding everyone's attention and Perry will call him Carlotta or Madeleine and -

Several moments pass before Perry hears the bicyclist calling for someone to help, and realizes that JD still hasn't surfaced. "Someone help!" the bicyclist calls, "He's still underwater!"

No one else has seen the accident, the cyclist losing control of his bike and ramming straight into JD, standing at the water's edge, from behind. Perry is running toward the shoreline, and jumps into the water, the shock of the cold hitting him but somehow not slowing him down. With the stinging saltiness of the water it's hard for him to see anything at all, but he keeps swimming downward, and there is JD, drifting slowly to the bottom and not seeming to notice at all. Perry's lungs are already screaming, but if he surfaces for air he'll never be able to find JD again, so he tries to ignore it, keeps swimming after JD.

JD's eyes are closed and his lips are parted, and he's dead weight. Perry grabs him by the hood of his sweatshirt and begins clawing his way back up to the surface as quickly as he can, lest they both drown.

Drowning. There's water in JD's airways and his lips and fingertips are starting to turn blue. _This is bad. This is so bad,_ he thinks, and turns JD on his back.

There's a crowd now, people from the hospital and people who just happened to be in the park today. Perry checks JD's neck for a pulse - it's weak, but it's there. There's nothing to do but artificial respiration, get the water out of his lungs and get air in.

Pinch the nose shut, incline the chin. Two breaths. "Christ, Newbie, how bad could it have been?" he mutters as he counts to himself, one-two-three-four-five, "You could have chosen a different way to make a splash at the ball, Cinderella." Everyone is listening, he knows, so he shuts up and continues, sighing in relief as JD finally coughs up the water in his airways, able to breathe on his own again. He's still unconscious, shivering a little, still pale but the blue tinge is leaving his lips and fingertips.

An ambulance comes shrieking up to the park, paramedics pushing through the crowd. Perry watches them lift JD onto the stretcher, wrapping him in a couple of blankets. He's breathing. His heart's beating. He'll be fine, it just looks like he's a little hypothermic. The doors on the ambulance close and they take him to Sacred Heart.

When he wakes up he's on a hospital bed, monitors beeping around him and Dr. Cox in the chair next to his bed, chin resting on his hand. "What - " he croaks, and clears his throat. "What happened?" he asks.

Dr. Cox glances over at him, eyes shifting but otherwise completely still. "There was an accident."

"Yeah, but - last thing I remember I was ... " JD trails off lamely, somehow afraid to put words to what happened. There is nothing like a near-death experience to make you afraid to move, or even speak.

"Drowning, Natasha," Dr. Cox finishes for him, "And Barbie was too busy with her mirror and Gandhi and Carla were too busy giving each other the googly-eyes to see you go down."

"So who -?"

"I did, Carlotta."

The first thing JD thinks when Dr. Cox tells him that he saved his - Newbie's - life is, _Great. One more bullet in his arsenal._ Then he comes to his senses.

"You?" He expects another girl's name, another sneer and another well-placed acidic comment, but Dr. Cox, strangely, doesn't seem up to it. He only nods, and JD lies back on his bed, staring fixedly at the ceiling, wondering blankly if he missed the choir of angels and the holy lights when Dr. Cox came after him.


	2. broken bone

He's never heard the word _faggot_ so many times at once. He's never been in so much pain before, asphalt tearing at his skin and blood running in rivers from his mouth, and they're still kicking him, so hard his kidneys hurt, his head smacking against the rough brick wall next to him.

When one of them spits in his face he's actually afraid they're going to kill him. Stab him, shoot him, or maybe just beat him to death. 

But they don't. They leave, and as they do, Doctor Diagnosis steps out to assess his condition. Ribs - probably broken. Cheekbone - probably broken. Teeth - definitely broken. He looks around on the ground to see if any teeth are actually missing, but it's too dark to see and there's too much blood in his mouth to really tell if any teeth are gone. He spits out some more blood and gets off the ground as carefully as he can, minding his ribs. He has to brace himself against the wall for a moment while he tries to figure out what he should do. He's past tears now, at least, only really able to choke out a few sobs while he coughs and spits up some of the blood that keeps running down his throat. 

It's only a few blocks to the hospital, so calling an ambulance would be stupid. The walk won't kill him, and after letting him sit in the ER for a couple of hours they'll wrap him up and give him some painkillers and he can sleep on an extra bed and maybe tomorrow he'll be able to make sense of this. 

He really is lucky they didn't rape him. Or kill him. 

He knows he must be a gruesome sight to behold, and on top of it all, he's still in his scrubs. Sitting there covered in blood like this is one thing, but when you're wearing scrubs people have a tendency to assume you're on duty. 

He probably should have called the police. They smashed his cell phone against the pavement, throwing it down and shattering it, so he couldn't have called from the scene anyway. He fills out forms, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. He's rarely on night shift, and never in the ER, so he doesn't recognize any of the staff here, but the nurse working in triage noticed his Sacred Heart badge. She tells him the same thing she tells every other patient - we'll get to you as soon as we can. 

He could call Turk or Carla or Elliot, but they'll just fuss over him and beg him to tell them what happened and call the police and then he'd have to tell it a hundred times over and he doesn't even want to tell it once. 

He laughs at himself when he thinks he could call Dr. Cox. "Somebody took your dolls away, Loreena?" He can just hear it now. 

Still. It would be better than nothing, right? 

Right? 

So he finds the courtesy phone in the lobby, calling Dr. Cox's number, tapping his fingers nervously against the wall of the small metal cubicle. He feels like he's just been arrested, using his one phone call. Would he call Dr. Cox then, too? 

"Yeah." 

JD is silent at first. What should he say? "Dr. Cox?" 

"Newbie. What do you want?" 

He checks the clock on the wall above the cubicle. It's almost midnight. Shit. 

JD could tell him he's been attacked. That he's waiting in the ER for them to call his name and put him in an exam room to wait some more. 

"C-could you come to the ER?" he says instead, sounding every bit like the girl Dr. Cox thinks he is. 

"_C-could you come to the ER?_" he repeats, mockingly. "God almighty, Newbie, if you're asking me for help now -" 

"Not for a patient," JD interrupts him. "For me." Dr. Cox pauses, and JD thinks that it's a hell of a time to render him speechless. 

"Newbie. What happened?" he asks, his voice serious. 

"I got attacked on my way home. I stopped for a drink with Turk, and then he left and I left and I guess they followed me." 

"Why didn't you call Gandhi?" 

JD's been hoping he wouldn't ask that, that he wouldn't have to say that he never really considered calling anyone else, that he would be the only person JD would want around during something like this. "He'd make me feel too much." Ridiculous. He wishes his internal filter would work sometimes, instead of letting him say things like that. 

Dr. Cox still seems to be at a loss. "Give me a few minutes," he says, and hangs up. 

JD shuffles back to the waiting area and waits, the back of his head resting against the cool stone wall and closing his eyes, waiting for Dr. Cox to show up and struggle on deciding whether to help or to laugh. JD's heart sinks as he realizes that he'll probably do both, at the same time. 

"Let's go, Priscilla," Dr. Cox says to him, startling him. "You didn't have to _wait_, Newbie." 

"I couldn't have treated myself, could I?" 

"Treat yourself for what? A few bruises?" 

"Broken ribs. Broken cheekbone. Broken teeth," Doctor Diagnosis replies, and JD notices Dr. Cox's expression turns considerably darker. 

"X-rays. Come on," he says, taking a stray wheelchair and gently pushing JD into it. More gently than JD thought he'd be capable of. He doesn't like the feeling of being pushed in a wheelchair, particularly not by Dr. Cox, but it beats walking. 

Dr. Cox isn't laughing, and JD's not sure if this is a good or a bad thing as he pushes him to Radiology, X-rays his abdomen and his face and injects him with Demerol while he looks at the films. 

"Hairline fracture on the cheekbone, two broken ribs," Dr. Cox finally says to him. "Whatever reason they did this, it must have been a good one." He looks up at JD, expectantly, and JD knows he wants an explanation, because people don't just do things like this without a reason. It's hardly ever a _good_ reason, but there's always a reason. 

"Not really," JD replies, shifting uncomfortably in his spot on the X-ray table. 

"Did they at least tell you?" 

"They thought I was gay." 

"And are you, Buttercup?" His tone is forced, trying to pass for nonchalant and not really succeeding. 

"Does it matter?" 

"It does if you were stupid enough to make a pass at them." 

JD shakes his head. "They must have seen Turk and me." 

"Well, that's just as effective," Dr. Cox says, urging him back into the wheelchair. "How many?" he asks as he pushes JD down the hallway. 

"Two." Dr. Cox grunts, hitting the elevator call button rather viciously. 

"I need some wrapping for your ribs," he says, "and I'll give you some Demerol for the pain." JD nods, mumbling his thanks. "Do you need a ride home?" 

"No. I was just going to stay here, take an extra bed." 

"Don't want to face Barbie or Gandhi or Carla?" 

"Not really," JD admits. 

"They'll find out sooner or later." 

"Later sounds good to me." 

Dr. Cox doesn't say anything else as he wraps JD's abdomen, tightly enough to keep him from moving too much. For a minute JD wishes he _had_ called Turk, because at least he wouldn't feel this exposed and vulnerable. He winces as Dr. Cox pours some antiseptic over the abrasions and lacerations on his hands and arms and forehead, and expects another girl's name, but Dr. Cox still doesn't say anything, only bandages the injuries when the liquid has dried. 

As he writes the prescription for the Demerol, he says, "There's an extra room at my place. If you want it, take it." 

"Really?" 

"The offer expires in -" 

"Okay." The injection from earlier is making him drowsy, and his head droops forward a little, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, and he just wants to sleep. "Thanks." 

"Sure. Now," Dr. Cox says, "Call the police." He shoves his cell phone at JD. 

JD is awake in an instant. "What?" 

"The police, Newbie. Generally, hate crimes are frowned upon in this jurisdiction." He raises an eyebrow. "You think I didn't know what you were doing, Scarlett?" 

"No police," he pleads, "Not tonight." 

"Then I'll call. I'm bound by law, Evelyn." 

"Fine. Could you leave, though?" 

"No," Dr. Cox replies simply, and JD knows it's pointless to argue. 

The police come. They ask a million questions a million times. He gives them descriptions of the men who did it, tells them when and where it happened, what he did when they left, and they tell him that the best thing to do in situations like this - what he should have done - is to call the police immediately. They go. By the time Dr. Cox takes JD to his car and helps him up the stairs to his apartment it's past three in the morning. The investigator will be back tomorrow but at least JD can sleep for now, a bed in Dr. Cox's apartment and a bottle full of Demerol on the nightstand. 

"Think you'll be able to sleep okay?" Dr. Cox asks him. 

"Sure," JD replies, shaking the bottle of Demerol slightly. "Thanks," he says again. 

"Kelso will see your file in the reports from last night. I'll tell him you need a few days." 

JD could kiss him. 

Actually, JD _does_ kiss him. Again, his internal filter has failed him, and what a time to fail, too. 

It's just a stupid chaste corner-of-the-mouth kiss. A fifteen-year-old-girl kiss. It could be because of the Demerol, or because it's the closest thing he'll get to physical comfort, or maybe it's something else. JD feels drunk, and he can hear himself mumbling, "I guess they were right. You know. About me." 

"I think it's real cute that you needed to tell me that, Rebecca," Dr. Cox replies, "because I sure never knew." He pauses, studying JD for a moment. His voice softens as he says, "Look. There's a better time for this, alright?" 

"You won't -" 

"I won't forget. And I certainly won't let you forget," he says, standing and turning off the lamp. "Good night." 

"Night," JD mumbles after Dr. Cox has left the room.


	3. concussion

Car crash.

There's a screech of rubber, a sickening crunch as the rear end of Perry's car collapses, the sound of glass breaking and your head hits the headrest behind you, hard enough to make you see stars, hard enough to make you black out. 

"JD. Come on." You feel fingers on your face, cool and gentle, trying to wake you without moving your head or neck. You don't really know what's going on, why you can't seem to remember where you are, so you open your eyes and you're in the passenger seat of Perry's Porsche, seat belt across your shoulder. You look over at him, worried when you see blood on his face. 

"Are you okay? You're bleeding." You unbuckle your seat belt and lean over to look closer, but he reaches out, stretches a hand across your chest. 

"I'm fine," he says, "Just a cut. Just stay still. You were out for a couple of minutes." 

Out for a couple of minutes? "What happened?" you ask, but you've already figured it out. This is how concussions work, and with the blood on his forehead and the massive headache you've got steadily moving in and the broken glass and the people coming up to the car to see if you're alright, what else could have happened? 

"There was an accident," you can hear him saying, "I've called the police, and there's an ambulance on the way too." 

You're blank again. "An accident?" You look over at him, and you see blood. "Perry, you're bleeding, are you okay?" 

He stares at you for a moment, that inscrutable expression on his face. "Newbie, you've sustained a concussion. Stay calm, alright?" he says, brushing your hands away. "I'm fine. Just a cut." You nod, your head swimming a little. He pulls his penlight out of his front pocket, shining it in your eyes, holding your eyelids open with his thumb. He watches you for a moment and nods, rather grimly, sitting back in his seat. 

You want to tell the ambulance driver to shut the damn sirens off, because your head is absolutely killing you, and then the door opens and there are hands underneath your armpits, pulling you out of the car and putting you on a stretcher, and you try to look up, look around for Perry but they tell you to keep your head still, so you call his name. 

"Are you coming?" you ask him, and he shakes his head. 

"Can't," he replies. "Sorry," he adds, "They need me to stay on the scene."  
You're a little disappointed, and a little nervous, until you notice he's bleeding. "Are you okay? You're bleeding." 

He nods again. "Just a cut, Newbie." 

"Oh," you say and lean back on the stretcher, closing your eyes. 

"Hey!" he snaps, whistling, and you open your eyes. "Stay awake." He puts his hand over yours and squeezes slightly. Your eyes can't really focus very well, and you can't tell if you're just sleepy or if something else is wrong. 

They're shining bright lights in your eyes and you swear a little under your breath. Perry's yelling at the paramedics, asking why the hell they've got you lying down when you've cle-_hear_ly got a concussion, and they _do_ know what happens when people with concussions fall asleep, right? They help you sit up and he squeezes your hand a little more tightly. "Just sit tight, alright, Newbie? I'll get there soon." 

"Where are they taking me?" 

"To the hospital." You don't say anything, just nod, vaguely worried at the blood on his face. 

At the hospital everything starts to make sense again. Car crash. You can sort of remember hitting your head, but nothing after that. Perry tells you that you were probably experiencing temporary anterograde amnesia - common with a certain degree of head trauma. You kept asking the same questions, not knowing where you were or where you were going. "I'll thank you not to scare me like that again." 

You nod, and he tells you that they're keeping you under observation for a day or so, and you're not really looking forward to staying awake for that long. But Perry will check in on you, spend his lunch hour with you, and you'll drink coffee and watch television until he gets off of work. Besides, you've been awake for longer than that before, and even though you were a useless mass of nerves and you had Dr. Cox riding your ass all the way, you survived it. You only had Dr. Cox then, not Perry, sitting next to you, his hand briefly resting on your knee before going back to his charts. 

So maybe it won't be so bad.


	4. insomnia

The first night you can't sleep, you don't think too much of it. This happens to everyone sometimes, where there's too much on your mind when you go to bed, so that every time you close your eyes another thing occurs to you until you're sitting up in bed, your forehead resting on your knees, thinking. 

This time, it's Ms. Morrison, going in for surgery in the morning. Her epilepsy's gotten so out of control that you've decided it would be best to sever her corpus collosum, and your neurological and surgical consults agreed with you. You don't know why she's gotten to you, when you've got a man in his early fifties with early-onset Alzheimer's disease, a sixty-year-old woman who needs a trach ring implanted who swears she's not going to quit smoking, and several other patients who are dying, leaving spouses and lovers and children behind. But Ms. Morrison is the one who gets to you, even though she gets to live, and she'll probably even be fully functional after therapy. 

But for one reason or another, you can't get her out of your mind, even though the best you can do in her case is actually pretty good. All you can do for Mr. Flannery, the Alzheimer's patient, is tell him about support groups, tell him there are memory exercises he can do to slow the progression of the disease. All you can do for Mrs. Lassiter, the trachectomy patient, is tell her that it's never too late to quit, yes even though she has to get her trachea removed because of throat cancer, because next it could be her lungs or her heart and that really could kill her and what about her husband and her daughters - how worried must they be now? All you can do for Mrs. Sorenson and Ms. Whitman and Mr. Chamberlain is tell them you'll make them as comfortable as possible. 

So maybe they're all on your mind, and maybe Ms. Morrison's sticking out so much because there's so much that can go wrong with her surgery. But it doesn't matter now, because there's nothing you can do from here, because it's up to the surgeons, isn't it? So maybe you should forget about it and get some sleep. 

You know those kinds of thoughts are only going to make things worse - only a few hours left to sleep, I'm going to be a zombie tomorrow and that can't be good for my patients, and how hard can it _be_ to close your eyes and relax, anyway? Et cetera. But you can't stop them. So you're nodding over your coffee in the caf, trying to remember what day it is and what time Ms. Morrison and Mrs. Lassiter are getting out of surgery, trying to listen to Elliot talking about how she burned the oatmeal this morning, trying to decide whether you can get your hands on some stimulants from the pharmacy to get you through this, because you're going to need something or else sooner or later you're going to end up killing someone. 

The second night you consider drinking to help you sleep, and the third night you try it but it doesn't do anything except send you to work with a hangover the next day. 

The fourth night is even worse, because you can't even remember anymore how long it's been since you've slept, and you know you were just lucky that Dr. Cox was hanging over your shoulder today when that patient crashed, because your interns are still paralyzed with fear every time they hear those alarms, just like you were once. 

The morning of the fifth day, Dr. Cox gives you a bottle of Ambien and tells you that you're not helping anyone by being here like this and if you need some time off then you need to take it because what happened yesterday shouldn't have happened and if it happens again you'll be in a lot more trouble than you've ever been in with him, because next time could be the time you kill the patient with the family with the high-priced lawyer, who will come after you without hesitation. 

You've been listening, but you guess you haven't really heard him because you just start babbling on about how it's been five days now and even though Ms. Morrison is doing fine and Mrs. Lassiter listened to you and Dr. Cox was there to save your ass yesterday, you just can't relax the way you should and you've had problems sleeping before but it's never been this bad, you've never fallen asleep in the shower before, like you did this morning, and all the coffee in the world isn't helping you with anything except dehydrating you, and you've done everything you're supposed to to try fix it but nothing is working, nothing at all and maybe there's something really wrong and all of your thoughts are running together lately and you lose track of the time and your files and even your damn coffee, and you don't realize Dr. Cox has pulled you into a supply closet until his hands are on your face and he's looking you right in the eye and saying, "Listen, Josephine. If you need to have your breakdown, do it in here where no one's going to watch you," and he kisses you and tells you he's taking you home. 

The fact that he kissed you doesn't really hit you until you're in his car. "Why did you do that?" you ask him, your words sort of blurring together, and you think that everything seems blurred lately, even your own reflection in the mirror and Dr. Cox is talking again. 

"Newbie," he's saying, "Do you know what it's like to be someone's hero?" You shake your head, but you don't think he sees you. "It is only _the biggest ego trip possible_, and you just don't know what that _does_ to me, Sandra, I mean, _really_." He runs his hand down over his face. "We'll divide up your patients for the rest of today and tomorrow." You're still in the passenger seat of his car, your hands in your lap, the bottle of Ambien clutched loosely in your fingers, looking over at him. 

"You kissed me," you mumble, and he sighs, growling a little, and unbuckles your seat belt, gets out of the car and hauls you out of the passenger side door, leading you up the stairs to your apartment. You give him your key when he snaps at you to give it to him, and he pulls you into your bedroom, pushing you down on your bed. 

"Here," he snaps, shaking out a pill from the bottle and giving it to you. 

You've barely had time to swallow it when he's kissing you again, a little less rushed this time but just as forceful, one of his hands gripping your jawbone and the other one on the back of your head, pulling you in. You try to kiss back but you're not sure if you're successful, but either way Dr. Cox doesn't seem to mind. "I'll be back after my shift is over," he tells you, "Get some sleep, Annabelle." 

You pull your covers back and lie down, and soon enough shadows are playing with each other and you feel a pleasant weight on your limbs and soon you can't even keep your eyes open. 

On the fifth night, you wake up to Dr. Cox shaking you, asking you how you're feeling and if you slept okay and you say yes, and he says good and then he kisses you, and it sends your head spinning again but this time it's not the sleep deprivation getting to you, and he's pulling your shirt over your head and moving his mouth against your neck, biting and sucking the flesh there, and you're sure he's leaving marks but you don't care too much right now as his hands are moving down your body, warm and a little rough, teasing and tweaking at your skin. He grumbles impatiently when you have to get up and search for condoms and lube, and you figure there's no question about who's going to be screwing whom here and you really don't have much of a problem with that, so you give them to him and he tosses them aside while he pushes you back down on your bed, pulling your scrub pants off (you didn't bother getting undressed earlier) and teasing you through your boxers, making your hips and your back arch up toward him. He snarls at you, telling you to stop making those girl noises or this is _off_, get it?, so you choke on sighs and moans while he drags his palm across the head of your dick, making you twitch and shiver.  
The pill you took still hasn't really worn off, and you feel drunk when you sit up and get down on your knees in front of him, unzipping him and feeling a little shy when you see his erection. You tentatively run your tongue up the length of him, reveling in his hisses and the low moans you hear. His hands are in your hair, urging you on, and now you're not really sure whether the pleasant haze everything seems to be filtered through is the aftereffects of the Ambien or whether it's something else. 

You vaguely remember doing this before, a few times, back when you were still an undergrad, and you figure you must have been a little drunk when you did it, because you think it might have been Turk you did it to, but you're not sure. You wonder if you're doing this right, but judging by the noises Dr. Cox is still making - that same low moaning, rumbling in the back of his throat - you've got little to be nervous about. You graze the head of his cock with your teeth, applying just enough pressure, making him careful with the way he lets his hips buck toward you or the way he presses on the back of your head. You relish the feeling of control, while you still have it - which, it turns out, is not much longer. 

You grunt as he hauls you up toward him, pushing you back down on your bed and pulling off your boxers. Through the haze you feel a little too exposed, a little uncomfortable, watching him unrolling a condom over his cock and slicking it with lube. It's not like you haven't done _this_ before, either, but last time you slept with a coworker ... well, that didn't turn out well, and thinking of Kim brings back those painful memories again for just a second, and before _that_ it was Elliot, and you guess that could have gone worse. But Dr. Cox isn't like Elliot, and if something goes wrong here, you're pretty sure things aren't going to just eventually right themselves again. Then again, if you push him away now, things won't be able to right themselves anyway, so you might as well enjoy this while it's happening. 

"Alright there, Newbie?" he's asking you, and it takes you a moment to nod. "I'll go slow," he tells you, and you're in awe of that for just a moment, because that's pretty weird behavior for someone who's giving you what's basically a mercy fuck. So you ignore the fact that he mistook your apprehension for something else entirely and nod again, relaxing the best you can when you feel his cock pressing against you. It still hurts, kind of _really_ hurts for a second, but he's going slow, like he said he would, and he's stroking you while he draws in and out, and soon enough you're trying to stifle the noises that are threatening to creep out of you, and oh fuck that's so good and you don't want it to ever, _ever_ stop. You squeeze your eyes shut and your fingers grasp at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto. "Fuck," you whisper, and the tension and the tightness is building up, and he leans down to put his mouth to yours, and you want to tell him to stop, to slow down, because you realize that you really _don't_ want this to ever stop, but it will, and as soon as it does he's leaving, walking out the door, and if you ever try to say anything about it ... well, he'll probably punch you in the mouth. 

So you try to speak, but it doesn't really work, because when you try to say "Stop" what comes out is "Oh, God" and when you try to say "Wait" what comes out is "Please." 

"Oh, God, please." There's really only one way to interpret that, and Dr. Cox moans and shudders above you, and the sound hits you, pooling in your groin and you can't hold back anymore, shivering and pushing your hips up toward him. 

He falls next to you, head landing on the pillow beside yours, and his harsh, ragged breath is in your ear, one arm resting casually across your hips. And there's that stupid hope again. When he closes his eyes and dozes off for a moment, you really think he's going to stay, and it'll be nice having someone sleeping next to you again, even if it's only for a night. 

But it looks like you won't even get that. He wakes up after a few minutes, and looks over at you with that impassive expression on his face, and really, that look says it all. _This doesn't leave this room. Say anything and I will kill you._

He sits up, finds his clothes and starts getting dressed. "You don't have to leave, you know," you mumble, and you wince, because that sure was a stupid thing to say. Of course he has to leave. Or at least he doesn't have to, but he's definitely going to. 

"I'm not that guy, Newbie," he says, and you know it. 

"Yeah," you reply, under your breath, and you watch him go. 

"Good night," he says, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.  
After a few minutes of watching the ceiling, you grab the bottle of Ambien off your nightstand and swallow another one. Stupid, you know, but you don't care, because now you won't have to deal with the thoughts that are threatening to keep you awake for another night.


	5. psychological trauma

_When you stop speaking, you can hear what the world really sounds like. You can use a vow of silence when it hurts too much to talk or whenever you just want to listen for a while. You can take a vow of silence when you've said what you feel is enough._ (Kate Bornstein, _Hello, Cruel World_.)

i. _hide._

Violent crime is hard to deal with. JD has seen people in the clinic or the emergency room with bullet wounds and lacerations and bruises caused by their spouses or lovers, by their friends, by strangers. Sometimes they go into ICU, and sometimes they don't make it. Sometimes he sees the DOAs in the morgue. 

Sometimes their injuries aren't visible. Sometimes rape victims come in, nervous and shying away from him until he realizes what they're in for and he calls in Carla or Elliot or one of his interns and stands outside the room or just leaves, checking on the next patient. It's hard, because he can't help them. He can't even get them to trust him. 

Rape victims aren't usually men, and even though people don't think too much about it, JD knows it happens. It's happened to other men besides him. 

He's working on a story he can tell his friends, because he's got to tell them _something_, because the scrapes and bruises and cuts on his face aren't going to go away quickly enough. He figures he'll just tell them he was mugged, that it sucked but he's okay. 

They did this because he isn't straight. Actually, it's worse than that because he didn't tell them that. He just acted like he always does, damn it, and they made assumptions. They were drunk, and they were violent, but worst of all they were _quiet_, so no one would hear and they told him they'd kill him if he screamed or called for help so he didn't. JD's not even sure if he wants to get up and do something about this or if he just wants to lay here and bleed to death. 

There's a lot of things he's supposed to do now, and there's a lot of things he's not supposed to do. He wants to go home and take a hot, hot shower, one that lasts for hours until he's clean, although he's sure he won't feel that way for a long time. He wants to set fire to the clothes he's wearing and let them burn until there's nothing left but ashes. He wants to sleep. He wants to stay in bed. For days. Or until it goes away. 

He's not supposed to do any of those things. He's supposed to go to the hospital or call the police, and they'll get the rape kit and ask him questions that he won't want to answer, they'll ask him if he invited this, they'll basically ask him if this is his fault, and he won't know the answer. 

He doesn't want to go to the hospital because of all of that, but mostly because he doesn't want to run into Perry there. _Dr. Cox_. He's Dr. Cox at the hospital. 

Whichever. He's there tonight, in ICU, and even though JD would be in the ER, Dr. Cox would hear somehow, and that would make it so much worse, because he wouldn't let it go. He would pick at the holes in JD's story, the things that didn't fit, like why it looked like two people had attacked him at once when there was only one mugger, like why his t-shirt was missing and the long-sleeved shirt underneath was torn so badly, and why there were abrasions on his knees when his jeans weren't torn, and he'd yell and belittle him until JD finally told him, and then he would call the police, just like he's supposed to, and JD doesn't want the cops, no way. 

He's not even all that hurt - nothing seems broken, there's only a couple of strained muscles, some bruises and scrapes and cuts, which is nothing he can't deal with, really. 

So he goes home. He takes a shower. He does the things he's not supposed to do and he's paralyzed with fear and guilt and self-hatred for a few days, but eventually, it gets better and he moves on. 

Yeah, right. He doesn't move from the pavement, just pulls his knees tighter to his chest and tries not to think about the fact that his injuries really are pretty bad - his ribs are at least bruised, but they don't feel broken, and he's not sure, but he thinks he did black out for a few minutes, maybe, because there's bits and pieces that he can't really remember - which isn't too much of a loss. He really should get out of here, because it's cold and the ground is hard and also the smell of violence and his own blood isn't really doing anything for his state of mind. 

His cell phone is gone, along with his wallet, which didn't have anything in it anyway except credit cards, which can be canceled and replaced, and his driver's license, which can be replaced, too. Easy. The least of his worries, really. 

He could find a pay phone, maybe call Elliot and ask her to come and get him, tell her he's been mugged. He hates lying to Elliot, and he doesn't even know if he can, but what would she think if he told her the truth? She would go insane with worry, and she would resent him for not letting her call the police. He could call Turk, but whatever Turk knows, Carla knows, and he couldn't stop Carla from getting the police involved. 

He gets up, not really thinking about where he's going or what he's going to do. His clothes are torn and he knows he looks like hell, shuffling down the sidewalk, trying not to limp too much. He passes a few people on the street and is mildly horrified that no one even asks if he's okay, because what if he really needed help? Maybe they're just assuming that he got into a fight or something, that it's not that serious, and he guesses he can't blame them, because they didn't see him curled up on the ground in that alley, trying to decide whether or not this was something he wanted to deal with. Of course, it isn't, but he knows he has to do it anyway.

ii. _frozen._

Why did he come here? 

The staff here recognize him, of course, and there's other hospitals in the city, so why why why did he have to come here? 

He doesn't know who paged Dr. Cox, doesn't know who thought that he'd even care about this since no one except Turk and Carla and Elliot knew what they were doing together when they weren't at the hospital. Maybe no one paged Dr. Cox, maybe he just showed up, but when he saw JD in the waiting room he hauled him into the elevator and brought him upstairs, pushed him into an empty room and asked what happened. Actually, he said, "God almighty, Lily, the other girls finally took your dolly away, didn't they?" 

_I was mugged_, he tries to say, but it's not that easy. He finds quickly that he can't really speak, and he doesn't really want to. 

"Your wallet and your cell phone are gone," Perry, no, _Dr. Cox_, says, "Were you mugged?" JD nods and as he gets some antiseptic for the minor injuries Dr. Cox asks, "Well, why didn't you just say that?" JD shrugs. "Talk to me, Myra, what happened?" 

When JD still can't answer, Dr. Cox's expression softens slightly, and his voice is low and rough when he says, "JD." 

He twitches a little when he hears his name, because now Dr. Cox knows it's serious, and sure enough, here it comes. "You're lying about something, Newbie," he says, a frown on his face, "This isn't the way muggers work." He takes out his cell phone. "We need to call the police." 

"No!" JD's outburst surprises even him, and the lines on Dr. Cox's face deepen as JD starts babbling. "No cops tonight, please, I just want to go home and sleep and they'll ask me a million questions and they're going to - " 

"Newbie." JD stops, wincing as Dr. Cox comes toward him with cotton balls soaked in antiseptic. "I didn't even touch you." He sounds pained, and JD nods, still not speaking, hoping and not hoping Dr. Cox will get it because he really doesn't want to talk about this, but if he does get it then it will open everything up and then he won't have a choice but to talk. 

Why did he come here? There are other hospitals. He gets up from the table, his shoes hitting the tiles with a sharp slap. This is the wrong place for this, because if it's not Dr. Cox who runs the rape kit, then it will be a colleague or one of his interns and that would ruin every working relationship he's developed. 

"I'm going to County Hospital," he mumbles as he walks out the door. 

"What _for_?" 

"So they can do a rape kit."

iii. _doctor._

He's expecting Dr. Cox to come after him, and insist that he do the rape kit himself or that JD at least let him come along to County. But Dr. Cox doesn't come, and JD can't decide whether he wants him there or not. 

He takes a bus to County Hospital, and when he walks into the lobby, he's relieved to see that he doesn't recognize anyone on duty. He shivers when he feels the stares of the other people in the waiting room on him, wondering if it's as obvious to them as it was to Dr. Cox. He wonders if he looks that bad - his reflection hasn't exactly been the first thing on his mind. His hair is drooping into his face, and he pushes it back, watching the ceiling. 

A nurse admits him after a while - JD can't really say how long it's been, but it's getting harder to keep his eyes open and every now and then he starts to nod off. Nurse Maguire is a short woman in her mid-forties, maybe, with a gentle face, asking him as she cleans the wounds on his arms and face what happened that put him in such a state, but he can't answer her. He just shakes his head as she looks at him, waiting for him to speak. She nods and continues, and JD has a feeling she's figured it out, but then again he kind of feels like everyone who looks at him has figured it out. 

"We need to stitch these deeper cuts, sweetie," she says, pulling off the latex gloves and tossing them into the hazardous materials bin. "There's a couple of surgeons on call tonight. I don't think Dr. Merrill is busy, so he should be in pretty soon. Just sit tight for me." 

Now is the moment when he should tell her, he knows, as she's walking out the door. He could just say it casually, tell her that she needs to do a rape kit because ... well. Because. 

But then when Dr. Merrill comes in with a stitching needle and suture line, he thinks about it, and he remembers that it costs about five hundred dollars to process a rape kit. That's five hundred dollars he's going to have to pay for them to do about a million things to his naked body that he'd rather not deal with under normal circumstances. He's not sure he'd be taken seriously anyway. He closes his eyes as Dr. Merrill comes toward him with the wicked-looking curved needle, trying not to lose his mind when he can hear the doctor's breath in his ear, his fingers on his forehead like ice, holding him in place and - 

_Stop it._ The voice in his head is strangely like Dr. Cox's, tense and curt and authoritative. _Make a decision now, because they're almost finished with those stitches, and pretty soon they'll be discharging you._

He gets his discharge papers, telling him that the wounds will probably close within two weeks, and he'll need to get the sutures removed. Nurse Maguire says goodbye to him and smiles, and he wishes he could smile back but it's not coming to him. He shuffles out the door, and realizes he doesn't know what to do now. Go home? Elliot will be there, and she'll want to know what happened to him, why he didn't call her, why he went to County Hospital instead of Sacred Heart. Go to Turk and Carla's? They'll do the same thing. 

Only Dr. Cox is left, and JD has a feeling he'd be the best person to go to, except for the thing where he knows exactly what happened and wouldn't be willing to drop it, which is really the only thing JD wants right now. That, and a bed to sleep in. 

A bed. The on-call room. 

It's better than nothing, right?

iv. _shower._

There's no one in the locker room when he gets there. 

If he takes a shower, it's over. The evidence will wash down the drain and there won't be a rape kit or an investigation or a trial. 

The water is hot enough to make his skin pink, so hot it hurts, but he ignores it. He wonders, as he lathers shampoo in his hair, how he'll ever be able to let anyone else touch him ever again if he can barely even bring himself to do it. 

The fluorescent lights cast a greenish tinge on his skin, and all of his injuries seem to stand out even more, angry dark slashes and scrapes and bruises glowering at him. He leans against the cool white tiles, steam rising around him, filling his lungs. It occurs to him that he'll have to get an STD panel sometime, and that makes him feel even worse, scrubbing his skin raw, scalding water beating down on him. Tears push at the back of his eyes, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his hands on his head, pulling at the roots of his hair, trying to forget. 

He's spent a few hours wandering around, trying to decide how to handle everything, and somehow nothing had seemed quite real. Not personal. This is JD doing what he has to do. Go to the hospital. Remember working and personal relationships. Go to another hospital. Wait. Get examined. Don't tell them what happened. Walk back to first hospital. Forget about it. 

Now, seeing himself naked under the harsh sallow lights, it starts to come back.

v. _rape._

"Hey, faggot." 

Years of looking over his shoulder whenever the Janitor called out, "Hey, idiot!" had made him wise to this game. He kept walking, stumbling a little, alcohol going to his head. 

"We're talking to you!" He heard fast, heavy footsteps behind him. "We saw you in the bar with your big nigger boyfriend. Do you like big black cocks, faggot?" 

"Sure. Whatever," JD said, pushing past them and rolling his eyes a little. _Jesus_, he thought, _what kind of idiots are going to that place now?_ He'd call Turk when he got home, say maybe they should find somewhere else to hang out - 

And then his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp punch to his lower back, making him double over, not even able to make a sound. They kicked him to the ground then, hauling him into a dark alley, kicking him in his stomach, grinding his face into the rough gravel and broken glass on the ground. 

He tried not to think about it while they were doing it, hoping idly that God (if God existed) would just go ahead and give him a heart attack or something, kill him now, because they were probably planning on beating him to death. 

That idle hope turned into cold terror as they started pulling his clothes off, pulling his hips up in the air, mumbling under their breath at him. He couldn't hear them, could only hear his own harsh breathing and pleas to not do this, and when he started to shout, to call for help, he heard the soft _snick_ of a knife blade, felt it sing against his skin, and the tall one whispered, "Try that again, and I'll kill you. I'll _gut_ you, queer. Don't you say a fucking word." 

"Don't do this. _Please_," JD panted, but they laughed, and then the first one pushed into him, and it felt like he was being ripped apart, and he felt sick to his stomach when he realized that was probably true, because soon enough there was _something_ lubricating him, and there was a coppery smell filling the air, and every time he managed to pull his thoughts away from what was happening to him, they'd hit him again, punching him, shoving his face down into the pavement, digging in the knife a little deeper, sending thin rivulets of blood running across his skin, growling the most horrible things at him in between their grunting and smirking. Like he deserved this somehow. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and he was screaming at himself in his head, _Just yell. They're probably going to kill you anyway, you know._ He knew. But when he opened his mouth to scream no sound came out, only a couple of choked-back sobs and moans. 

When they left him, naked on the ground with the taste and smell and feeling of blood and come in his mouth and his nose and all around him, shaking and sweating and not wanting to move because if he moved that might make it all _real_ somehow, he figured he was lucky to be alive. If you could call it 'lucky'. For a while he felt like he could have stayed there until he died because there's nothing like sexual assault to take the will to live right out of you. 

He closes his eyes and leans against the cold tile wall in the shower and wonders what to do next.

vi. _trapped._

He steps out of the shower, towel around his waist, and goes over to the bench in front of the lockers, and is dismayed to see Perry sitting there, apparently waiting for him. 

"Hey there, Newbie." 

He closes his eyes and tries not to think about Perry's eyes on him, impassive, and tries not to feel like a deer in headlights. Trapped. "You got treated," Perry says, his voice careful and measured. 

"Yes," JD whispers, and he hates how everything seems amplified in the locker room, everything down to the last whisper, and every sound echoes. 

"Anything serious?" 

"No." 

"You didn't tell them what happened, did you." 

It should have been a question, and even though it sounds like Perry already knows the answer, JD replies, "No," in that same low whisper. 

Perry's expression is inscrutable, and he says, "I guess you knew what you were doing." He sounds pained, and JD wants to forget about all of this, wishes he had never said anything, so no one would have to worry like this, because he knows that if Carla or Turk or Elliot finds out, they'll be the same way, which he expected, but hearing Perry speak to him like that, watching him carefully maintaining a neutral position, the severity of it hits him again. He sits on the bench next to Perry, a few inches away. Normally they wouldn't be apart like this but right now JD doesn't even want casual contact. "Do you want to go home?" he asks, "Come to my place?" 

"I don't know. I don't know where to go, or what to do," JD says, his voice still low. 

"Some clothing would be a start." 

"Yeah. Could you go away?" He hates the way he sounds now, raspy and uncertain and afraid. 

"I'll be in the hallway," Perry says. JD meant 'go away' as in _go away, leave me alone because I don't want to remember this_, and he knows that Perry knows that, but he also knows it's useless to argue. He has some spare clothes in his locker, and he wishes they were a little bit thicker, and he still wants to burn the clothes he was wearing before. 

Perry is waiting for him outside the locker room, like he said he would be, and JD tries to get away from him, but what would he do if he did? 

He could walk home. It's so late, and Elliot's probably gone to bed. He's been spending a lot of time at Perry's lately, anyway, so she probably wouldn't even know anything was wrong. Until she saw him the next morning, bandaged and stitched up. 

"Look," Perry's saying to him, "Come to my place. There's an extra room. If you want it." 

It's tempting. But JD shakes his head and answers, "No. I just want to go home."

vii. _blood._

He's actually doing pretty good for a while, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the lights off, little fingers of moonlight pushing through the cracks in the blinds. He does his best to think about other things, anything but what happened, or the momentary look of helplessness on Perry's face when JD effectively told him that there was really nothing that could be done, that not even Dr. Cox could help him now. He feels safer here, though, where it's dark and quiet and alone. Where he doesn't have to react. Where he can just pretend that everything is okay. 

He doesn't realize he's been chewing on his lip until he starts bleeding. 

The taste of it in his mouth brings him right back, that thick coppery taste, like he's holding a mouthful of pennies. Filling his nose and his mouth, making him feel sick, making him hurt and every inch of skin and every single muscle feels like it's on fire. Sharp, searing pain below his hips, making him cry out against gravel and broken glass. 

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, so bright spots of light play against his eyelids, and bites down harder on his lip, thinking maybe the pain will help him forget, trying to ignore the taste of blood in his mouth. 

He should have gone home with Perry. 

Well, yes. But he also shouldn't have said anything at all.

viii. _answer._

When he wakes up the next morning, Perry is sitting in a chair next to his bed. 

"Morning, Newbie," he says, his voice low. "I let myself in." 

JD looks over at the clock and panics when he sees that it's past eleven o'clock. He was supposed to be at work at eight. "Shit," he mutters, and gets up to go take a shower, but Perry grabs his wrist before he goes. 

"Relax," he says, but JD winces at the sudden contact. "Sorry," he murmurs. 

"What are you doing here?" JD asks him, and they're both a little taken aback by the question, so abrupt and acerbic. So uncharacteristic, JD knows. He hardly even recognizes his own voice. 

"You're not working today. I got some people to cover for you." 

JD nods. "You didn't ..." He can't bring himself to say the rest, can't admit to himself yet that oh yes, something happened last night, didn't it? 

Perry shakes his head. "I didn't say anything." 

Something happened last night, didn't it? 

JD can see that Perry wants answers now, now that JD definitely has no excuses, no faked pages to answer or patients to attend to, but he's not sure if it would do any good, especially now that all the evidence is gone. All it would do is force him to remember and make Perry so angry. 

Yet he can see that sick need to _know_ in the other man's eyes, and that awful notion that maybe if he carries a little bit of it, it won't be so bad, and JD feels trapped, because no way is he getting out of this. He'll crack, eventually, and when he does, that will be it, won't it? Whatever it is that's going on between them will end because Perry won't even want to touch him anymore, and what's worse, JD can't tell whether or not he _wants_ it that way. 

This might be easier if Perry would just stop _looking_ at him. JD keeps watching the ceiling, wanting to disappear, because no. This isn't the conversation he wants to have right now. Or ever. 

But the longer the silence stretches on, the faster his mind churns, and the less he can keep those horrible thoughts out, the harder it is to keep his mouth shut. "There were two of them," he says suddenly, closing his eyes, "They were drunk. They attacked me when I left the bar," he pauses, swallows hard, trying to keep his composure, "and they dragged me into an alley." _Oh please fill in the blanks,_ he pleads silently. _Please don't make me say it._ He looks over at Perry, whose eyes are also closed, whose fingers are digging into the armrests of the chair he's sitting in, and before he has a chance to think about it, JD's murmuring, "I really shouldn't have said anything." 

Perry's eyes open. "Maybe so," he replies, and JD notices the edge in his voice that means he's been drinking. "But don't you think I would have noticed when you couldn't stand to let me touch you anymore?" 

And when he says it JD realizes he _doesn't_ want this to be over, he wants contact and reassurance but the thought of hands on him makes him want to bolt. And he wants to say that, but Perry looks so defeated, so hungover and deflated in his chair that he might not even hear what JD has to say. 

Besides. Sometimes it's best not to say anything at all.


	6. hypnogogic hallucination

It jolts him awake the first time it happens. He's felt like he's falling before, as he's falling asleep, but he's never heard things. 

"JD," a small voice whispers, and he cries out, gasping. "Perry?" He looks over at the man next to him, who is soundly sleeping. He sits up, slowly, looking around the room as if something there could explain that voice, but he knows nothing will be there. 

"Newbie," Perry grunts, and JD looks back over at him. His eyes are still shut, but his brows have furrowed a little. "Quit fuckin' around an' g'to sleep," he mumbles. 

JD nods, even though Perry is already asleep again, and lies down, watching the ceiling, wondering if he even _wants_ to go to sleep now. He doesn't really have much of a choice, though, when his eyelids get heavy and finally close. 

The second time it happens (the next night), he's just as terrified - more so, really, because it happens more than once. Small, young-sounding voices whispering his name, JD or Johnny, once asking him, "Did you ever find it?" _Find what?_ JD wonders. He almost expects an answer, but nothing comes. 

By the fourth night he begins to seriously consider the possibilities that he's either haunted or crazy, and he doesn't really feel crazy, so haunted he is, but by whom? Little kids from the hospital? But he doesn't normally treat children, and he's never lost one. Although the kids in pediatrics don't always make it. Still. It's not his fault they're dead. 

He frowns down at his turkey sandwich in the caf, listening to Elliot talking about a concert she's thinking of going to, but she can't find anyone who can or will go with her, and how pathetic is it to go to a concert alone, because she's really thinking of just going herself and screw what other people think. He knows she doesn't mean that, not really, but he hopes she gets the nerve to go. 

"JD? Is something wrong?" she asks him, and he looks up at her, not really knowing what to say. 

"No. Why?" 

"We've been sitting here twenty minutes and you haven't said a word." 

"Oh. I've just been having trouble sleeping lately." 

"Oh, is it insomnia, because I've got some pills that might help you, I mean, they're expired, but -" 

"No. Not insomnia. I've just been hearing voices before I go to sleep." 

Elliot's eyes widen and she chokes on her water, coughing and spluttering for a few moments, and JD knows that that was a pretty stupid thing to say, so he tries to calm her down, and adds, "I mean, it's not like they're trying to get me to kill anyone or anything," and that was probably even stupider. "Look, I've got to go," he says after she's finally able to breathe again. He drops his untouched sandwich into the trash on the way out of the caf. 

He feels like an idiot. Ghosts do not exist. Hallucinations do. _But this seems so real,_ part of him whines. _Hallucinations usually do,_ the other part replies, and realizes he's back at square one. Stupid square one. 

So he lies in bed again. He knows that some people jolt awake at night - Perry does, kicking and twitching. The brain gets all these warning signals that the body is dying - rapidly dropping heart and breathing rates - so it sends impulses to the muscles, trying to kick the body awake. 

He's never heard of voices, though, and he can't help but worry about it, so he can't go to sleep, and when he can't sleep, he fidgets, and when he fidgets, he wakes Perry up. 

"Go to sleep," he grumbles. 

"I can't," JD replies. 

Perry sighs and asks, "And why not?" 

JD hesitates. "Ghosts," he whispers. 

"Ghosts," Perry repeats, disbelief and impatience apparent in his voice. "Right. _Go to sleep,_ Newbie." 

But now that he's said it, JD has to finish it, so he tells Perry about the voices and what they say and how they sound like ghost children and it's just scary, okay? After a moment of silence, Perry replies, "Christ, Sylvia, you're not talking to ghosts. Hypnagogic hallucinations." And he turns his back to JD and within moments is gently snoring again. 

Hypnagogic hallucinations. So he isn't haunted after all. It feels safe to sleep again, but thinking about it now (if he just forgets the abject terror he felt until just moments ago), it was kind of cool, being haunted. He kind of misses it. 

(Just before he drops off to sleep, he hears a little voice whisper, "Johnny, did you see it?")


	7. hiccups

_Hic._

_Hic._

_Hic._

Perry Cox takes a deep breath and begins to count, but he doesn't get to three before it happens again. _Hic._ He sits up and snarls, his hand gripping the back of the couch like a vise, and he's expecting Nervous Guy or maybe Barbie, because could there _be_ anyone more annoying, but when he sees, he remembers. Newbie. Emma-Laurie-Allison-Alicia. "For God's _sakes_, Becky, would you drink some water?"

"Oh, hey, Dr. (_hic_) Cox. I didn't see you," comes the reply. Awfully cheery for someone likely to be meeting their very painful death in just moments. Neither of them speaks for a moment, the silence only broken by the incessant, squeaking, irritatingly _regular_ hiccuping.

"Either you go," Perry Cox says, "or your diaphragm does. My God, Eliza, it's like Chinese water torture, listening to this."

"Sorry. I've been (_hic_) holding my breath, trying to get rid of them since lunch. They just won't ..." A pause, and a frown. "Stop." _Hic._ "Dammit!"

"As fun as it might be, watching you experience your own private hell, I'm afraid I just can't do it anymore. I have been here for many, many hours, and I don't care to count them, Christina, understand? - the point is, I'm so very _tired_, and if I don't get at least five minutes here, if I have to hear that noise - that sad, wheezing noise - one more time ... well, I am going to kill someone. You have driven me to the brink of murder, Newbie, so do what you have to: breathe into a paper bag, hold your breath until your face turns blue - hell, _drown_ yourself if you must, but please, don't make me kill. I'm not sure any jury would acquit a madman blathering about Newbies and hiccups." He pauses. "Then again, we could just enter you as defense exhibit A, couldn't we? It might not get a not guilty verdict, but it sure would make for one _hell_ of an episode of _Law and Order_." He lies back down and hears the scrape of a chair against tile, a shuffle of papers, and footsteps walking out the door as Newbie leaves, hiccupping all the way.

**A/N**: Lolz. Thanks for the kind words everyone's left so far. :D


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